i couldn’t title this

and here we are on the flip flop! hi friends. it’s 2018! this little space on the internet is turning five this year! life is weird.

anyway, today i got an idea for a maybe novel. that would be a bit funny, i think – me, writing a novel. i don’t have any of it to share with you, probably because it doesn’t and very well may never exist, but i do have dear june to share with you: prose i wrote for an obnoxiously good demo made by some of my favourite lads. here’s some of dear june, which really only makes good sense if you listen to the songs with it – this part goes with autumn – which probably makes it a shoddy piece of writing. i don’t have the energy to fight the part of me that was once proud of it. anyway. prose with music okay go!


Dear June,

I’ve found that people get warmer as the weather gets colder. Maybe it comes from a selfish evolutionary impulse to stay alive and with others, or maybe the falling of the leaves reminds us all of how fragile everything really is. Maybe closeness is a response to understanding.

In the fall we did things like consider futures where neither of us existed and I realized that I didn’t have her the same way she had me. We ran from the fear licking at our underbellies signaling the end, and loved it. I watched her do everything right and everything wrong, and anything at all, and loved it. It felt a bit like a funeral, really – understanding that what was, was really was coming to an end, and that we’d have to witness it. When we tumbled we blamed it on the weather, and dressed like we were waiting on the bliss of the summer that started it all to return.

She became nervous for the first time in all my knowing her that season, and I became overwhelmed. I didn’t know that you could float on an ocean of unspoken love for so long before you start to drown, or even that drowning could be bad. I faltered when I wanted to be plain with her and she withdrew, but I could never blame her. Not once; not ever.

When the last of the leaves hit the ground, I started to consider my reasoning. I knew she’d go, and I knew I wouldn’t survive it, but I continually found myself waiting for her, despite what she’d do. I never expected her to change, though. There’s little room for improvement when perfection is the standard one starts at.

With love,
Autumn


there it goes! there it be!

if you want to read the whole thing, it’s over here. talk to me about it on twitter if ya like! okay. i gotta zoom. there’s a bomb cyclone that’s preventing me from going outside and i need to be sulky about it somewhere.

love and light,
shalom xo

Dare – More Angst. (Really, Shalom?) (Yes.)

Hi! I’m feeling super angsty and I keep writing these break up posts even though I have absolutely zero break up experience. Hence the melodrama, I think. Here’s another. Yay!


How dare you come into my heart? How dare you claim ownership –falsely! – over the only thing that I truly own? How dare you come, fleetingly, and leave marks like foot prints in the sand, in your opinion? Let me assure you, my heart is a Persian rug and you were, are, wearing those caterpillar boots with soles laden with mud and heartbreak.

How dare you make me think that anything was for you? It was all for you at one point, all points! Everything – how dare you make me believe in me because of a couple “you’re beautiful”s? How dare you?

How dare you allow me to think that good things come from you and nowhere else? How dare you crush anything that was alive and call it “housekeeping”, who told you my heart needed to be kept? How dare you, you and your empty words and “no promises” mantra. How dare you leave when you thought you’d cleaned up enough?

My carpets are dirty and the curtains are hanging off the railings. How dare you.

To whoever dares come after, some words:

Stake a claim in my heart, or get the hell out.

Amanda Torrini


 

That’s all. I’ll be back soon, I hope.

All my love,

-Scoot xx

Choose- A piece about an angsty teenager and luuurve

Hello friends! So while I figured out why I was feeling all sap saps this week, I started my channel! Also, I wanted to write some angst about how I don’t have a Jackson Harries to fly halfway across the world to see me. Watch that video here, it’s great. In any case, here is the angst romance shmance pants!


 

I miss you.

I miss the stupid way I used to feel when we went out, the way it seemed like I was on drugs a little bit whenever I was with you. The way you used to – do you still? – bite on the corner of your top lip when you concentrate too hard. The way you used to know so little about so much.

I remember the way one day played out: when we walked for a long time, and I got tired, so we stopped. You sat and I sat after you and we made shapes with the clouds. You asked I was okay and I asked if you were happy, and you said, ‘yes, kind of’ and I said ‘yes’. I remember you leaning on my shoulder and asking why I was so tired and I told you that I was having a regular day. I told you that I was confused about choices and that I hated losing and that the world is a big place.

You asked what my choices were and I said, ‘a couple here and there’, and you asked what I wanted you to say. I didn’t know. I was quiet and then you were quiet and then we held hands. I keep drawing hands because I miss holding yours.

I remember you looking at me and touching my nose, watching my face scrunch up and the tension in my body disappear. I remember when you turned and propped me up onto my knees while you were on yours and you held me tightly. I remember you squeezing tight and asking if I was crying. I was crying.

You held my one hand, with the other still around my back. You looked at me, and said, ‘I choose you. I’ll always choose you,’.

It’s December, darling. You didn’t. I miss you.

Qui dit que tu m’amais? // Who said you loved me?

 


THUS ENDETH THE ANGST! I’m feeling a lot less teenagey-hormoney now, so I’ll probably be back to my usual crap talking…whenever I …ah, I can’t even keep my train of thought from being derailed.

Soonest,

Scoot X

Shining

Please note that I just had an idea spam and I haven’t written in a while because junior year. I will be back soon, sometime this week!

I’ve always liked my eyes better when I cried.

When I cried, they weren’t that mud-brown-almost-black that everyone said they were. They were different, shiny. Shiny? Yes, shiny. I suppose everybody’s eyes shine when they cry – it’s the tears. I just so happened to like mine.

“It’s here!” my mom called out. She was in the kitchen of our two-room apartment, and she had just gotten an email regarding the job she had applied for. I dragged as much of myself as I could into the kitchen with my fingers crossed.

“Okay, are you ready?” she asked, fingers waiting to open the document.

“Ready as ever,” I replied, trying to sound more enthusiastic than deadpan.

Don’t get me wrong, I wanted my mom to get this job more than anything. I wanted her to be happier, not to have to travel 40 kilometres every morning , not to be wary of the crazies she worked with.

I was just so used to disappointment, I couldn’t help but not get my hopes up.

She clicked the mouse- once, then again- and the screen was filled with text. And then I felt it. Hope.

I had the craziest hope that the letter would make my mom smile, and make her jump, and make her happy. I had the hope that something would have worked out. I had hope. Odd, since I hadn’t felt hope since That Night.

That Night was the night he left. He said he needed some cigarettes. He just didn’t come back. When he left, I was seven – innocent enough to be changed, but smart enough to see the truth. My mom had said, “Maybe he got lost, and right now he’s coming with a big present for you.Everything will be fine.” He got lost alright. Lost in a world where my mother, myself and him didn’t coexist. I guess he just decided to find a way out. Good for him, I suppose. Good for him. My mother didn’t lie to me again after That Night.

My mom started to read in her usual overly cheery voice: “Dear Mrs Tapenden, we regrettably inform you that the position has been filled.” Her tone didn’t change in the slightest as she continued. ” Your application has been unsuccessful. Your time is appreciated. Keith Roger, Design and Co.”

“Well, I guess it’s not time yet!” she said, voice thinning as she skipped towards the small excuse of a living room. I couldn’t believe it. I’d allowed myself to feel hope, and nothing had happened. But somehow, my mother kept her faith. I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t comprehend why she had to keep doing something. I felt the alien sting of tears in my eyes and began to think of something else. Math. Breakfast. Jude Law. Jack Frost. Selena Gomez.

Nothing was working.

So I cried. I let all 17 and a quarter years of myself cry.  I looked into the microwave, and saw my eyes. There, I saw my mother.

Let down. Beat up. Mud brown.

But shining. Still Shining.

Night 122

*** Oh, yes, I write too 🙂 please read & drop a like or comment 😀 I guess if anyone enjoys this I could add this to my regular rants 😛 Thanks lovelies 😀

All my love all the time

-Scoot xx ***

                                 ________________________________________________________________________

Today is Wednesday. It is the first Wednesday of the week long mid-term break.

It’s the 122nd night that I cant sleep.

I turn in my bed, looking for a comfortable spot to rest my head, something that should feel warm, natural. No, that’s not this. This feels alien, so strange–like something I don’t experience often, and for a good reason.

I try to lie on my back, facing the ceiling, and find myself contemplating the odds of the roof collapsing on me, the odds of anything collapsing on me, the odds of the odds being Ever In My Favour.

I think about the days that I used to try to fall asleep, as I turn onto my side. My bed creaks as I do. It says more than most people know, it speaks. Honest, it does. It tells me that those extra sandwiches weren’t worth it, that tomorrow’s going to be a sad day at the scale. So here, now, on my right side, I close my eyes.

I close my eyes to see exactly what I tried to avoid by doing so – I see the truth. My truth at least. That’s what the therapist told me once. “Your truth can sometimes hurt you, so it’s best to look deeper, for the real truth.” As if. As if a ten year old would understand that.

My closed eyes choose not to grow heavy, but rather to fill me with panic and fear, as I contemplate tomorrow.

It seems simple enough, this sleep thing. Simple as taking candy from a baby, simple as counting to three. Simplicity that’s too complex for me to find.

I turn on my left side, facing the wall, with one major thought in my mind- a first for me. I turn and think of tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be night 123.